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Han never thought love could decay so quietly. It began with the small things, missed calls, half-hearted replies, the way Jeyel’s touch grew lighter, as if hesitant to linger. At first, Han convinced himself that it was just stress. work had been demanding, and they were both juggling their future plans. But then the warmth in Jeyel’s eyes dimmed, replaced by something distant, something unreadable.
At first, it was subtle. Jeyel began responding to Han’s texts with shorter replies, the usual “Good morning, love” turning into a simple “Morning.” The warm affection in Jeyel’s eyes dulled, replaced by something distant, something unreadable.
Han noticed the shift immediately. How could he not? He memorized every part of Jeyel–the way his lips curled when he was amused, the lilt in his voice when he was excited. But now, there was none of that.
“Is something wrong?” Han asked one evening, his voice laced with concern. They were sitting on Jeyel’s couch, a movie playing in the background, one they used to love but neither was really watching.
Jeyel barely looked at him. “Nothing,” he muttered, eyes glued to his phone.
Han swallowed the lump forming in his throat. Nothing. But it didn’t feel like nothing. The way Jeyel flinched when Han reached for his hand, the way he avoided eye contact, it felt like something was slipping away.
The second confrontation was worse.
“I feel like I don’t know you anymore,” Han admitted one evening, voice quiet, trembling. He reached for Jeyel’s hand, but his fingers curled away before Han could grasp them.
“Maybe you never did,” Jeyel murmured.
It was a dagger, one Han didn’t know how to remove.
Nights blurred into days, and the distance between them became something tangible, something suffocating. Han tried to understand. He tried so hard. Every time Jeyel pulled away, Han reached out harder, hoping to anchor them back to what they used to be.
But love wasn’t an equation. Love wasn’t something that could be solved by effort alone.
Han could feel it, their foundation was cracking. And Jeyel wasn’t trying to hold it together anymore.
Han had made up his mind.
If Jeyel was slipping away, then Han would tie them back together. He would remind Jeyel of their promises, the future they had built since high school. Maybe if they had something more solid, something real then maybe Jeyel would stay.
So Han bought the ring. He had spent almost all of his savings but for Han, it’s worth it, imagining the way Jeyel’s fingers would glisten with it under the sun. He rehearsed his words, practiced how he would kneel, how he would hold Jeyel’s hands and remind him that love was something worth holding onto.
But before he could even reach for his pocket, Jeyel beat him to it.
“Let’s break up, Han.”
Han froze.
For a second, Han thought he misheard.
“What?”
“I’m tired,” Jeyel exhaled. His voice was calm, almost detached. “I’m tired of this. I’m tired of you.”
Something inside Han shattered.
The ring burned in his pocket. His hands clenched. He wanted to ask why . He wanted to beg. But something about Jeyel’s expression stopped him. An exhaustion deeper than anything Han had ever seen before.
Jeyel wasn’t changing his mind.
So Han swallowed down the lump in his throat, forced himself to shake his head, even as his vision blurred.
“No,” finally said, voice barely above a whisper. “No, you don’t mean that.”
Jeyel’s jaw tightened.
“I do.”
“Jeyel–”
“Don’t make this harder than it already is, Han.”
He could feel himself shaking.
Jeyel looked down. “I just... don’t love you anymore.”
Something inside Han cracked.
“That’s bullshit.” His voice was shaking, but he didn’t care. “You don’t just stop loving someone, Jeyel.”
Jeyel flinched. “Han, please–”
“Did I do something wrong?” Han’s voice was quieter now. Desperate. “Tell me. I can fix it.”
“It’s not about that–”
“Then what is it about?”
Jeyel stood abruptly, raking a hand through his hair. His back was turned, but Han could see the tension in his shoulders.
“It’s just over, Han.”
Han stared at him, His voice cracked. “Do you even mean that?”
Jeyel didn’t answer.
That was all Han needed.
He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it impossible to breathe. His chest ached, like something had lodged itself between his ribs and refused to move.
“Okay.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
Jeyel turned slightly. “Han–”
“If you want to go,” Han forced himself to smile, even when everything inside him was shattering, “then go.”
Jeyel hesitated. Just for a second.
Then he walked away.
And Han let him.
Left Han holding onto something that had already slipped through his fingers.
His breath came in short, uneven gasps. He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the small velvet box hidden inside. The ring he planned to give tonight.
It felt heavier than the world itself.
The first few months after the breakup were the hardest. Han kept replaying the moment over and over again in his mind, searching for something– anything that would make sense of it.
Was he too much? Was he not enough?
He drowned himself in work. He avoided their favorite places. His friends dragged him out of his room, forced him to eat, to live, to breathe.
And eventually, it got easier.
Five years passed. Han built himself up again. He had a career, a house, a life.
People told him he was thriving, that he had rebuilt himself.
And maybe he had. Maybe he truly had let go.
He still thought of Jeyel sometimes. But it didn’t hurt anymore. Or at least, that’s what he believed.
But to this day, Han wanted to use his birthday as an excuse to be wasted, to pretend that everything is fine. That the wall he built for five years is still standing tall and not slowly showing its cracks.
The bar was alive with laughter. Han sat in the middle of it all, surrounded by his friends, his face warm from the alcohol and the neon lights flashing overhead.
“Happy birthday, our Hani!” Kyungho slurred, throwing an arm around Han’s shoulder and clinking his beer against Han’s untouched glass.
“Twenty-five, huh?” Jinho grinned, leaning back against the couch. “You’re getting ancient, Han.”
“You guys act like I’m forty,” Han chuckled, shaking his head.
Steven, the responsible one, rolled his eyes and shoved a shot toward Han. “Stop sulking and drink. You look like you're about to cry.”
Hanseo leaned in, smirking. “Yeah, birthday boy. What’s up? Thought you’d be happier. You got us, good booze, and an excuse to get wasted.”
Jeongwoo, who had been quiet until now, nudged Han’s arm gently. His voice was softer than the rest. “Are you thinking about him?”
Silence.
Han’s fingers tightened around his glass.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
A few seconds passed before Kyungho let out a sigh, shaking his head. “Dude, it’s been five years. You should really let it go.”
“I have,” Han said immediately, his voice too even. Too controlled.
Steven raised an eyebrow. “Sure. That’s why you look like you’d rather be anywhere but here.”
Han let out a dry laugh and took the shot in front of him, letting the burn scorch his throat. “It’s my birthday. Can we not talk about this?”
But the weight of it sat heavy in his chest. Five years.
Five years since Jeyel left. Five years since Han let him go.
Han had never been good with alcohol.
Yet here he was, on his sixth–seventh? Of glass of whiskey, the ice clinking like wind chimes in the quiet night. His friends were still inside, their laughter echoing from the bar. He should be in there, celebrating. After all, it was his birthday.
But instead, he was outside, slumped against the cold brick wall, staring at the name on his phone screen.
Jeyel.
The name he never deleted.
The name that still made his throat tighten, even after five years.
His vision blurred, whether from the alcohol or something deeper, heavier, he didn’t know. His thumb hovered over the call button.
Don’t.
“It’s been five years. Move on.”
Han scoffed. Move on? He tried. He really did. But moving on meant forgetting, and how the hell was he supposed to forget someone like Jeyel?
His head fell back against the wall. The sky was too dark tonight. The city is too quiet. He hated it. It made him think too much.
Made him remember.
Han swiped at his damp cheeks, cursing himself.
He was pathetic. Five years, and he was still this pathetic.
Before he could think twice, he hit call.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then…
"Hello?"
Han sucked in a breath. The voice was unfamiliar.
“Who–who is this?” His words slurred slightly, the alcohol muddling his thoughts.
A pause.
"Are you Han?"
His stomach twisted. “Yeah.”
The person inhaled sharply. Then, in a quiet, hesitant voice
"I’m Jeyel’s aunt."
The world tilted.
Han straightened, suddenly sober. “Jeyel’s... what?”
"I–" She faltered. "I’m so sorry. You didn’t know, did you?"
A cold dread crept up Han’s spine.
“Know what?”
The woman exhaled shakily.
"Jeyel… well um I know what i’m about to say sounds ridiculous, but Jeyel… he has been dead for five years."
No.
No, that wasn’t–
Han let out a breathless laugh, his grip on the phone tightening. “That’s not funny.”
"Han–"
“Don’t lie to me!” He snapped, pushing off the wall. The streetlights blurred. His pulse thundered in his ears.
"I’m not lying." Her voice wavered. "He-he was sick, Han. He didn’t tell anyone until it was too late."
Han’s vision swam.
“No.” His voice cracked. “No, I–he broke up with me. He walked away. He-he was fine.”
"He didn’t want you to see him like that," she said softly.
Han felt like he was falling, even though his feet were still on solid ground.
“No,” he choked out, gripping his chest. “You’re wrong. I–”
“You can come here, Han. We've hidden this long enough. It’s time for you to know the truth. I’ll be waiting.”
Something inside Han broke.
The world became too loud. Cars passing by, people laughing in the distance but all he could hear was the pounding of his own heartbeat.
Han staggered back, the phone slipping from his grasp. It clattered against the pavement, but he didn’t move to pick it up.
His breath came in sharp gasps. His chest ached, his ribs caving in.
Jeyel was gone.
For five years.
And Han had spent those years waiting. For someone who was never coming back.
The realization hit all at once, suffocating and cruel. He wanted to scream, but no sound came out.
Instead, he crumpled to the ground.
“Han?”
Someone was calling his name.
“Han, what the hell–”
His vision blurred. His stomach twisted.
A sound tore from his throat. a mixture of a gasp and a sob.
“Han! Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Jeongwoo’s voice was urgent now, panicked.
Hanseo grabbed his shoulders, shaking him gently. “Han, what the hell just happened?”
Han choked, gripping the fabric of his jeans. His breath came out in ragged gasps, his chest heaving.
“No.” His voice cracked. “No, no, no–”
His friends looked at each other, alarm flashing across their faces.
“Han, what…”
“He’s gone.” Han’s voice broke.
Silence. His friends froze.
Kyungho was the first to react. “Who’s gone?”
Han squeezed his eyes shut, his body trembling violently.
“Jeyel.”
The moment the name left his lips, something inside him shattered.
A sob ripped from his throat, raw and gut-wrenching, his entire body shaking as he completely broke down.
His friends sat in stunned silence, unable to process what was happening.
Then, Jeongwoo, the only one who had always known how deep Han’s grief ran, pulled Han into his arms, gripping him tightly.
“I–” Han tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out.
Steven placed a hand on his back. Hanseo, for once, had nothing to say.
Jinho exhaled shakily. “Shit.”
No one knew what to do.
Because none of them had ever seen Han break like this.
The rain came down in slow, heavy drops, soaking through Han’s coat as he stood before the grave.
It was an ordinary gravestone. Too ordinary. Jeyel never liked ordinary things. He always wanted something different, something meaningful.
Han traced the name engraved in stone with trembling fingers. Jeyel Gaspar. Below it, the years that barely seemed enough. A person shouldn’t be reduced to numbers. A name. A slab of cold stone.
But Jeyel was.
Because Jeyel was gone.
Han let out a breath, shaky and uneven, watching as it fogged in the cold air.
2004 – 2024.
Twenty years.
That was all Jeyel got.
“This isn’t real,” Han whispered. His voice was small, fragile. like glass about to shatter. “This can’t be real.”
He took a shaky breath, but it wasn’t enough. The air wasn’t enough. His chest ached, as if something heavy was pressing down on him, crushing him from the inside.
His fingers dug into the wet earth beneath him. He felt the mud seep through his skin, cold and unforgiving, but it was nothing compared to the ice in his veins.
“You left me.” The words were barely audible, swallowed by the sound of rain hitting the ground. “You fucking left me, Jeyel.”
Han let out a sharp, breathless laugh, his shoulders shaking.
“I thought–” His voice cracked. “I thought you just needed space. I thought you were moving on. I thought I was holding you back.”
A sob broke past his lips.
“I thought I was doing the right thing.”
His nails raked against the soil, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping him together.
“Five years.” His voice was nothing but a whisper now. “Five years, Jeyel. Do you know how hard I tried?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, as if that would block out the memories.
Han let out a guttural cry, his entire body shaking.
“You lied.” His breath hitched. “You said you were tired of me. But it wasn’t me, was it?”
The realization struck him like a knife to the chest, twisting deeper and deeper until he couldn’t breathe.
“You were dying.”
His voice cracked.
“You were dying, and you–” He choked on his words. His throat burned. His lungs felt like they were collapsing. “And you didn’t tell me. And I didn't even notice.”
His hands trembled as he clutched the soil, gripping it so tight his knuckles turned white.
His voice broke completely, turning into a sob so raw it sounded inhuman.
“You should’ve let me stay.”
Han’s fingers dug deeper into the ground, his forehead pressing against the cold stone.
“I would’ve stayed, Jeyel.” His entire body shook. “I would’ve been there. I would’ve held your hand. I would’ve…” His words died in his throat.
The reality of it crushed him.
Jeyel had died alone.
And Han had let it happen.
The thought made him physically ill.
He gasped, curling in on himself as sobs racked his body. His forehead pressed harder against the gravestone, as if that would bring him closer to Jeyel. As if he could undo everything.
“I was supposed to marry you. We were supposed to last until…” His voice was barely a whisper now. “I had the ring, Jeyel. That night, I had the ring.”
He let out a broken laugh, but it sounded more like a sob.
“Did you know that? Did you know I was going to ask you to stay forever?”
But forever had never been an option.
Because Jeyel was already dying.
Han let out a choked sound, something between a laugh and a scream. His fingers curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms.
“You should’ve let me stay,” he whispered again, his voice hoarse
And then, the wind whispered.
Soft. Gentle. Like fingers threading through his hair. Like arms wrapping around him.
"Han."
It was barely there. Barely audible. But Han heard it. Or he thought he heard it.
His breath hitched. His entire body tensed.
“No–” His voice came out broken. “No, please.”
He clutched the gravestone, his tears falling harder, mixing with the rain. His entire body collapsed.
“Jeyel, don’t-don’t do this.” His voice shook violently. “Don’t–don’t let me hear you like this.”
The wind sighed. Soft. Familiar. Loving.
Like Jeyel used to.
Han let out a sob so broken, so devastating, that he couldn’t breathe anymore. He screamed.
A scream that ripped through the cemetery, through the rain, through the empty spaces Jeyel left behind.
A scream that no one could answer.
And as Han pressed his forehead against the gravestone, his body trembled.
Then Han remembered something, Jeyel’s aunt gave to him when he arrived. A folded piece of paper. aged, slightly crumpled at the edges, as if it had been opened and closed too many times. Han took it with shaking hands, his breath unsteady as he unfolded it.
Jeyel’s handwriting.
Uneven strokes, rushed yet familiar.
A letter he never got to read early.
Han,
I’m sorry.
I got tired. Not of you, never of you. I got tired of pretending I wasn’t dying.
If you ever hated me for leaving, that’s good. It’s easier that way.
But if you ever loved me still, then I’m sorry for that too.
I wanted you to move on. To live.
Please, Han. Live.
If the wind ever feels like it’s calling your name, that’s just me, still wanting to go home to you.
I love you so much, my love. Please live well.
Jeyel.
The paper slipped from Han’s fingers.
A guttural, shattered sound tore from his throat as he clutched his chest, as if trying to hold himself together, but it was useless. The pain poured out of him in violent sobs, his body shaking, his forehead pressed against the damp ground.
Han let out a choked, broken laugh between his sobs. “You’re so cruel, Jeyel…” His fingers dug into the soil. “You’re so… cruel.”
And still, the wind whispered back. As if comforting him.
And Han cried until the world felt empty.